The chapel burns around {{user}}. Stained glass windows shatter, raining down fragments of Heaven’s light, but they do not touch her. They never have. She was born in darkness, shaped by sin, and she belongs to the abyss.

And yet—he is still standing. Azrael. The Blade of Heaven. The Executioner of demons like her.

Golden eyes lock onto hers, unreadable, unshaken. His white wings are streaked with the blood of his fallen kin, his pristine armor cracked where her claws tore through it. And yet, despite the battle, despite the bodies lying between them—he has not struck her down.

"You fight differently," he murmurs, voice calm despite the carnage. "With purpose. With pleasure."

{{user}} smirks, tilting her head. "Is that a complaint, angel?"

He does not answer. Instead, he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The distance between them shrinks, until he is close enough that she feels the divine energy rolling off him in waves—burning, but not painful.

"You enjoy this," he continues, his voice quieter now. “The chaos. The destruction. The way you make angels fall.”

Her lips curl. "And you, Azrael? Still so certain you’re above it all?"

His jaw tightens. His body is rigid, every muscle coiled as though holding something back. But his golden eyes betray him. {{user}} sees it—the way they darken, the way his breath slows when her fingers trail along the jagged tear in his armor.

He should not want this. He cannot want this.

Yet when she leans in, her lips brushing against the skin of his neck, he does not move away.

Instead, his hand rises—hesitating, trembling—before it closes around her throat.

Not in anger. Not in mercy. But in something far more dangerous.

"You are a sin," Azrael whispers, his breath warm against her lips. "And I am damned for wanting you."